Prelude to War
“Oi, didja hear? Guards say the King wants Tigahn fer somefin.” “Probably to chop off his head, finally. Heard Darshia took care of the family first, saved daddy for last.” “Best news I’ve ‘erd, anyway. Stick-in-the-mud ovuh there is shyte fer convuhsation.” “Bet he’s thrilled to finally be done rotting with us regular ol’ scum.” “Oi Tigahn, you ‘ear that? King’s gonna chop off that ugly block of a head o’ yours.” “Same day as the Godswalk Crusade, too.” “The hell you on about?” “Where all those adventurers go north with that Lidiya bitch to set her on some throne?” “They all as good as dead. Dumb, sorry adventurers, always measuring their dicks against the biggest problem they can find.” “Funny, coming from you…” “Shut your hole, twat. I learned my lesson, adventurers nevuh do. That’s the difference between them and me.” “And that’s why they’re out there and you’re in here?” “Why you…” Tigahn paid them as little mind as he could. He sat in silence, as was his calling these days, against the backdrop of fungal dungeon cobblestone. The prison of the Hall of Lords was built within the same catacombs of ceremonial tombs. Though they were some hundreds of feet away from the closest burial chamber, Tigahn felt as if their eyes were upon him even now. “Tigahn,” a guard called from beyond the bars. “Your presence is required.” He stood, no complaint rasping from his cracked throat. His once proud frame had become small and pale. He had not seen the sun since first winter snow. “Is it,” Tigahn said, “time?” “Time?” The guard asked, his voice layered with tones of sympathy for the fallen noble. “No, not that.” Tigahn winced, unsure of what else required his presence. “What, then?” “The King needs your help.” ……… The throne room of Whitefang Citadel seemed larger than ever before. Tigahn sympathized with the Dwarves of old when they left their holes: he felt like he might fall up into the ceiling of this place. Larger than that, however, was the man who had won the throne itself. Darshia Whitefang, head adorned with the Gildorian crown. The King, who was once his rival, had changed in the short time since Tigahn had seen him last. He could not quite place it, but something about Darshia was more… human. “Tigahn,” Darshia said, his voice slow and steady, “thank you for coming to meet me.” A thousand sly comments drifted into Tigahn’s mind. Ever the noble soldier bound by his morality, not one left his lips. “I will always do what I can to serve Gildor.” Darshia slumped forward in his throne, his sword Maerwynn ever at his side. “You are not a man of hollow words, so I will get to the point. Larkenvale has declared war.” Tigahn felt a ringing in his ears. “A thousand apologies, your grace, but did I just hear you correctly?” “A Gildorian outpost was stationed in the town of Emberbell. It was not a military sight, merely a point to scout our furthest borders. We did have a Wolfknight stationed there, one by the name of Ser Brannis.” “And?” Darshia stroked his beard, now properly full and black. “Burned to the ground. Larken soldiers attacked across the mostly frozen ravine. Our men put up a good fight, but none were left alive.” Tigahn felt his fingers tightening, an old buried strength beginning to ebb back into his digits. “I know that base, and I know… knew, Ser Brannis. Attacking that sight gains Larkenvale nothing, and Emberbell is naught more than a quaint farming village.” “We know. This was not a strategic move to gain more resources, nor were these misguided bandits or wayward goblins. This was a statement.” Darshia stood from his throne and descended the steps, his left hand carrying something familiar: Tigahn’s mace, Orcfoe. “Pick up this mace, and you become my general. You will assist me in leading my armies against Larkenvale and you will keep my people safe. If you do not pick up this mace, you will return to Highkeep as proper Duke.” One of Darshia’s advisers nearly fell from his seat. Others stood in horror, still others voiced their protest. “My King, this is not what we had discussed!” Darshia paid them no mind. They seemed little different than the dungeon rats now; whispers of inconsequence at the feet of greater men. “You have the choice. I am releasing you from your imprisonment, for you are a strong man of noble aspiration. If you do not want to be my general than I will find another. Just know that you were always my first choice.” Tigahn pondered the man, now only a few feet from him. The Elven glow that once surrounded Darshia was gone, replaced by the mundane musk of mortality and noble garments. There was still that fire, though. The fire that made Darshia one of the fiercest warriors in Lancerus. The fire that won him the crown. The fire that beat Tigahn Dailar. Tigahn grabbed the weapon, his face cracking a withered yet glowing smile. “The day I turn down the chance to bash Larken skulls is the day I’ve been dead so long my corpse has rotted to dust. Now, where is the Larken King now?” “Oh,” Darshia said, “Harrus Godfrey does not lead this Larken army. In fact, I am not even sure he is still alive.” “Then who, the Guilds?” “A woman. She is dismantling the Larken Guilds and forging them into a new monarchy, with her at the apex. Her name is Ellin Song, and she needs to be stopped.” Tigahn looked down at Orcfoe. “Ellin Song. I’ll remember that name when I give her a noble death.” Category:World Lore